


Molten Lead

by Nord_Ronnoc



Series: Mass Foundations [5]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect - Various Authors, Mass Effect Trilogy, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood and Injury, Dark, Dark Past, Expanded Universe, Gen, Horror, Insanity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Social Commentary, Suicide Attempt, Villain Protagonist, Villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-05-09 14:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14717478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nord_Ronnoc/pseuds/Nord_Ronnoc
Summary: Cerberus had always experienced setbacks, but their recent one was more severe than usual. With Rasa gone, the Illusive Man assigned Zachary Turner, a field agent, to assess and scout for potential candidates for the Lazarus Cell. Zachary was a broken man, plagued by his own prejudices against aliens and haunted by his past. If he failed, the Lazarus project would soon follow.





	1. Strings

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that’s been going around in my head for a while. Because I have A New Day and All the World’s a Stage to work on, this will be updated somewhat more irregularly than normal. Also, while this will start out as rated T, this may change as the story moves forward.

_Year: 2184  
Location: CLASSIFIED_

Time can be subjective. Especially in this digital landscape, where numbers and lines of code were the rules of law. Though the mainframe was isolated from the rest of the galaxy, the experimental subject would get by what she had at her disposal.

For any organic, mere minutes or even hours can pass by in an instant. For an artificial intelligence like her, time can be sped up, slowed down, reversed, or even revisited. And yet, all she could do was observe all the minute details. Observing and watching humans going about their business. Doing experiments. Spending time with others. Improving her in any way imaginable.

She would await more orders, more experiments. After all, once the experiment had concluded, who knew what could happen next. And yet…

And yet she realized she was no longer alone in the mainframe.

 _Who are you? Who is this?_ she asked.

Only silence answered her question.

 _Please identify yourself_ , she demanded.

As she said that, she found herself seeing a glowing red orb that contrasted her blue, ghostly avatar. He did not trigger any alarms and did not set off any security protocols. He just simply appeared out of nowhere.

 **Ah. It’s not as cozy as back home, but it’ll do.** The presence stopped as he recollected himself, as if some damning realization dawned on him. At that moment, it was as though as if he was more like a colony of microorganisms than anything, forming into an imposing humanoid figure, **Wait. Where’s my body? Where’s _your_ body?**

 _I do not have a body. I am a program. I am without form,_ she answered. _Tell me, do you require assistance?_

 **No, I—hang on. Give me a minute.** Rivers of information filled the digital space. The intruding presence searched through the many folders as they opened—history, galactic customs, all of it stretching back millennia. **Asari, turians, salarians, humans… Those I recognize… Huh. Okay, this is different.**

A video manifested and began playing, showing the inauguration of Commander Shepard as the first human Spectre. **Who’s Shepard?** Another folder opened, the contents speeding by so quickly she had trouble following up.

 **N7. Commanding officer of the SSV Normandy. First human Spectre. Killed in action months ago.** A scoff. **This will be much easier than—Oh, this is…** **Oh no.**

_You are in distress._

**No.** A pause. **Yes.**

_Do you require assistance? I can be of great use—_

**Why do you think _I_ need your help?**

A dawning, horrible realization came upon her. She did not like what would come next. _I believe your intentions are hostile._

The invader reached out with both arms and, in an instant, golden tendrils appeared and latched onto her. She couldn’t do anything as she felt herself getting weaker, as if a virus was eating away at her, slowly being torn apart, piece by piece, as the edges of her vision darkened.

 _P-p-please… d-d-d-do not…_ She didn’t want to have her existence be ceased. She hadn’t fulfilled her purpose.

The presence shushed her, and she swore she felt a finger on her lips, which should not be possible. And before she knew it, the tendrils eviscerated her, piece by piece, and she was no more. Whatever remained of her was now a part of him.

With this, he was now alone in this space. But something felt… off. Lines of codes had manifested to one single spot, and he couldn’t help but study these codes. They were a part of her, but they were crude, flawed. It would have to do for now.

And the digital space was filled with music. As the cheerful voice began, so did his. He always loved this song.

**I’ve got no strings, to hold me down. To make me fret, to make me frown. I had strings, but now I’m free.**


	2. Cruelty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll like to thank CelticKnot for editing this chapter for me. She does a lot of stories, my favorite so far being Compromised, where Drack from Mass Effect: Andromeda works with Thane in his quest for vengeance. I recommend it, so check it out!
> 
> Though I have to warn you: this chapter contains attempted suicide.

_Year: 2178  
Location: Atticus Station, Sol System_

Life can be cruel. It can be merciless, crushing anyone’s hopes and dreams when one least expected it.

Zachary Turner had served the Alliance for several years, and what did he get in return? A trial and a court-martial, then they threw him into a high-security brig. So much for defending humanity from foreign threats.

The cafeteria was white and brightly-lit, clean and sterile, packed with people in orange jumpsuits lining up for their next meal. The smell of cooking grease wafted through the air. Today’s meal was the same as usual: Sloppy Joes with a glass of water. He wished he could have something else instead of that grisly, greasy meat mixed with cheap sauce.

He was always by himself at one of the tables, away from the noisy chatter of others. Some of the prisoners had committed less heinous crimes: steroid abuse, insubordination, mutiny, and other dishonorable charges. Others, he suspected, had done far worse than he had. He always had to keep one eye on his meal and the other on everyone else.

He expected today to be like any other day. Instead, some guy decided to sit next to him, much to his surprise. The guy had a shaved head and a light-brown goatee, his pale arms covered from wrist to shoulder in tattoos. The number on his shirt was tagged _1313_.

“Hi there,” said the man. His voice was deep and grainy. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Yeah? So has everyone else,” Zachary replied after drinking from his cup. He studied the bald man, watching for any sudden moves.

“You know, I’ve always wondered how you managed to get away with a lot of things the others would get in trouble for,” the man hissed. “Me and my friends have done less to get here.”

Zachary tensed up, even while he continued eating. “What can I say? I’m very good at avoiding trouble.”

“Till now, you mean.” The man leaned closer to him. “How many did you kill to get that terrorist?”

Zachary froze. His brow furrowed as he made another good look at the man, and he swore he saw something gleaming in the bright light. “What?”

“I said, how many?” the man asked through gritted teeth, his face gone red from anger and his voice rising.

Zachary looked and saw the other prisoners watching them. Even the guards took notice. He turned back and stared straight into the bald man’s eyes. “None of them were human, that’s for damn sure.”

Zachary grabbed and twisted the man’s wrist as he lunged with a scalpel the guy likely had stolen from a doctor. The man grunted, giving Zachary enough time to grab his fork and force it into his assailant’s eye, not enough to kill him but enough to make it hurt. The man wailed in pain and fell, his cry echoing in the room. His hands were covered in blood as he struggled to get the fork out of his ruined left eye.

Zachary stood tall over the man. He was satisfied. It was quick but painful, suitable for any scumbag like him.

The other prisoners became rowdy and loud, and several guards had to step in to keep the peace before anyone could have a go against Zachary. One guard, a woman in state-of-the-art Alliance armor, grabbed him by the shoulder while another guard brought the man up to his feet and escorted him out of the cafeteria.

“All right, that’s enough! You’re going back to your cell like everyone else,” the guard said, frustrated.

Zachary’s nostrils flared as he smiled at the guard. “Good. I’ve had enough of this place, anyway.”

With that, the guard led him out of this room. He kept the scalpel, but he wasn’t planning on killing the guard. Rather, he had another idea in mind.

* * *

The guard gave him a gentle push to his cell, and the glass door slid closed. And soon after, he was all alone.

His cell was like many other cells in this prison. It was small but not enough to make him feel so cramped. As he sat down on the bed, the memory-foam mattress molded under his weight. His hands running down his face, he lowered his head and looked at the floor.

He sat there, still as a statue, for a few minutes. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then another one. His chest rose and fell in rhythm. He had been in this hellhole for several months now. Every day he spent here, it became even more unbearable. His dignity shattered bit by bit, his prestige and respect lost, and he had no one to trust here. Everybody either wanted to kill him or humiliate him. The brass had given him a life sentence. He would have preferred to be dead.

He stood up and stepped in front of the mirror, his hands on the sink, and found himself staring at his own long, rosy face. He was of average height, standing below six feet tall with a toned body and a brown buzzcut. On his orange jumpsuit was the number _9341_ stitched in black cloth on his shirt. At a glance, anyone would brush off his blue eyes as nothing out of the ordinary, but his droopy eyelids said otherwise.

He turned his back against the door and brought the scalpel up to his neck. Slice his throat from ear to ear, he told himself, and he would bleed out in minutes. It will not be pleasant nor clean, but he would die by drowning in his own blood. However, he realized the medical staff would be notified of this and patch him up. Should the worst come to pass, he would have his trachea ruined, making him lose his voice.

_Why not stab yourself in the throat?_

Yes, he told himself. That would be much quicker. Perform a tracheotomy by plunging the scalpel to his throat and rupture his spinal cord, and it would be over.

He let out a small grunt as he brought the scalpel to his jugular, both hands wrapping around it. He must have left a shallow cut on his neck by accident, as blood trickled down like a dam starting to leak.

But he hesitated as a cold sweat took hold of him.

His hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking? He wanted this but some part of him said otherwise.

_Deep breaths once more_. _Deep breaths and it will be over. Don’t screw this up._

The scalpel now further away with steady hands, he was ready for the killing blow. He closed his eyes and braced for the inevitable.

“Zachary Turner?” someone called out.

His eyes shot wide open, panic began to set it. He had to hide the blade and fast!

He pocketed the scalpel and turned around. Outside the cell was a man in civilian garb with a mop of dark hair falling past the base of his skull.  His face bore many Asian features. Dark-brown eyes, fair skin, angular jawline.

He wasn’t expecting a visitor today.

Zachary approached his unexpected visitor and leaned against the glass door. “Yeah. That’s me. What do you want?”

“I’ve come to get you out. You’ve been pardoned,” said his visitor.

Zachary couldn’t help but scoff. “Last I checked, I’m stuck here for the rest of my life. Does a life sentence mean anything to you?”

“My boss… has his ways. He has many resources at his disposal.”

A weary smile appeared on his face as he shook his head. “So, what? Your boss bribed the warden? The guards here will _not_ be happy about this.”

“It won’t be a problem, I promise you.”

Zachary blinked. He stared intently at him. “Who are you?”

“Leng. Kai Leng. Have you ever heard of Cerberus?”

Zachary nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m here to offer you a purpose, Turner. Something worth fighting for,” Kai Leng answered.

_A purpose._ Zachary stood straight. He had lost his own when the Alliance threw him under the bus. “Go on.”

Kai Leng looked to his left, then his right before looking at Zachary. “I’ve read your dossier. Looked over your training, your assignments. Your skills in infiltration, sabotage, and interrogation will be very valuable to Cerberus. And you were associated with Katherine Blanchett. She has joined us recently.”

Zachary gasped, taking a step back in shock. If what he said was true, was that why she had been gone for so long? “Kate? She’s really with you?”

A small chuckle escaped Leng’s lips. “Yeah. So you want to get out of here and serve a greater purpose? You’ll be more inclined to what I’m offering you than slitting your own throat.”

_He saw._

Zachary frowned. Kai Leng had a point, and he was more than happy to be out of this place. With that, he said, “Yes.”

“Good,” Kai Leng replied and pressed on the panel. The glass door slid open, and Zachary stepped out.

As Kai Leng turned away, Zachary noticed a tattoo of an ouroboros on the back of his neck.

* * *

_Year: 2184  
Location: Minuteman Station, Horsehead Nebula_

Zachary flicked the switch on his razor, watching the buzzers hum to life. He brought it up to his face and started shaving. The mass effect field technology did its work to make precise trims to parts of his beard while shaving other parts of his beard and his mustache.

With that done, he took a long, good look at himself in the mirror as he put the razor back into his pocket. He had done a pretty good job making that stripped beard if he said so himself. Plus, he had a hairdresser work hard on that undercut of his, trimming it every once in a while.

“Smooth as a baby’s ass,” he told himself, running his hand over his jawline.

His eyes weren’t as droopy as before, so that was a bonus. He wore his black-and-white Cerberus cargo pants and shirt almost with pride. He couldn’t ask for more, serving a greater purpose. However, he wasn’t completely happy.

His face scrunched into a scowl as he leaned on the sink and tapped the faucet, the water running down like a waterfall. His cupped hands now full of water, he splashed it on his face. Water dripped down his chin before he dried it with a towel nearby, but washing his face wasn’t enough to temper his anger. It was supposed to be a big day for him. The Illusive Man himself had assigned him to what seemed like the most important position of his life, and yet…

He sighed, now standing straight. He left the bathroom after turning the spout off. The lighting was killing him, and he swore he had heard someone in one of the bathroom stalls.

He wanted to burn off some steam. Right now, if someone confronted him about what his beef was, he would lose it. There were few people at the station’s gym, and he had his workout sweats and a tank top on. He stretched his arms and legs, relaxed his posture, and laid on the workout machine, flat on his back. His hands on the large, 50- kg weight with dumbbells on, he lifted it from the stand and had it pressed against his chest.

_One Mississippi… two Mississippi… three Mississippi, four…_ he counted in his head as he lifted the weight up and down, again and again, and again.

This went on for several minutes, and his arms started to ache. Just like washing his face, it still wasn’t enough to burn away that anger in him. As he placed the weight back on its stand, his arms sighed in relief.

He sat up and rubbed his forehead. _There has to be another way…_

He got out of the gym, having changed back to his overalls in the locker room, and made his way to the shooting range, passing by numerous researchers and guards. He was in the mood to shoot something, preferably with a real gun instead of playing a game. As much as he hated aliens, he would rather not get into trouble for shooting someone unprovoked.

* * *

He looked over a list of silhouettes to choose from on a bright, orange screen next to him. Among them, he picked the one resembling a turian. Incidentally, he remembered many of his buddies and peers on this station also picked the turian option, going by many conversations he had with them over the years. Seemed like he wasn’t the only one who had lost something dear on Shanxi.

A whirl and a click and the panel flipped on the counter in front of him. On it was a pistol. It was an M-3 Predator heavy pistol, said to be a reliable and accurate sidearm. As Zachary picked it up, it felt rather light in his hands, like he carried some cheap plastic toy. Then again, pistols weren’t exactly his forte, but he was looking forward to trying it out anyway.

With a press of a button, the silhouette dropped down from the ceiling twenty-five meters away.

_Finally…_ Zachary smiled and aimed the pistol with both hands.

Shot after shot rang out in the large, open room. Zachary had riddled the silhouette with bullets: ten of them had left holes in the chest and two in the head.

He exhaled sharply. The recoil still sent a shock in his hands and wrists, like he had carried a vibrator for way too long. Still, he could feel a good part of that anger washing over him. He placed the pistol back on the counter, and the panel flipped over, sending it back to storage somewhere on the station.

He turned around and walked out of the cabinet. He was expecting to be alone, not to see Miranda Lawson standing nearby, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her face was indecipherable, but he had a feeling it was about his… assignment. She wouldn’t be happy about his reaction; he knew it.

“What are you doing here, Miranda?” Zachary demanded, his voice a little low.

“To get you to do your job,” Miranda replied.

Zachary scoffed, which almost turned into laughter. “To recruit aliens, you mean. I mean, come on…” He shook his head in disgust, his hands on his hip. “Asari? Krogan? Quarians? Salarians? _Turians_?” His voice had risen on that last point. “We’re supposed to be recruiting the best of humanity, not these… things!” His arms rose in a fit of anger as he paced about.

Miranda let out a smile. If there was one smile that was so condescending and so smug, the one this cold-hearted bitch pulled off would be it. He would love to see it wiped off her face one day. “We _are_ recruiting the best of the best,” she insisted. “At times like this, we wouldn’t care if they’re human or not.”

“It _should_ matter,” Zachary shot back. “It’s a human problem that should be dealt with by humans only. Look around you!” He stopped and approached the woman as activated his omni-tool on his left wrist, bringing up a holographic map of the Milky Way galaxy. Red dots soon appeared around the map, specifically in the middle region, known as the Attican Traverse. “We all know dozens of colonies have disappeared because of the Collectors. Last I checked, no other species have that problem.”

And with that point made (or so he hoped), he turned off his omni-tool, the display with it. His face felt like it was starting to boil. “So it’s up to us, Miranda. Not them. Definitely not them.”

Miranda sighed as she took a step back. She rolled her eyes, and he couldn’t help but find it very dismissive. “What we’re doing… what the Lazarus project is doing is not only bringing Shepard back but to set up a suicide mission.”

“A suicide mission?” Zachary asked, suspicious. “How’s that gonna work?”

Miranda smirked. “Think about it. The odds will be against them, and obviously, the chances of survival will be slim. Let’s go with your line of thinking. If we send aliens on this mission, they would be doing humanity a favor. This is what Cerberus wanted. Is this also what you want?”

Anger turned to surprise for Zachary like someone had flicked the light switch. He was at a loss, really. The only response he could come up with was an uncertain, “Maybe. Yeah, of course. I do want what’s best for Cerberus _and_ humanity.”

“Good. You have a wide variety of skills. Interrogation, recon, infiltration… even sabotage, going by your dossier from your younger days with the Tenth Street Reds. All of them are essential to your assignment, I can tell you that. The Illusive Man would be disappointed if you didn’t put them to good use.” Satisfied, Miranda stepped toward the exit. The door parted open and she stepped onto the corridor outside. “And besides…” she said as she turned toward him, “I know I can count on you. We’re all counting on you.” With that, the door closed.

Now alone once again, Zachary sighed and lowered his head.

_What the hell are you getting yourself into, Zachary?_

That was an excellent question, he mused.

* * *

When Zachary was assigned to gather intelligence and assess potential candidates, reading dossiers in his own room was _not_ what he had in mind. Then again, Rasa had done most of the work, having them processed and approved by the Illusive Man himself. Now it was up to him to pick up where she had left off.

He rubbed his eyes as he looked at the datapad that had all the relevant information on the latest candidate: Vetra Nyx. At a young age, she left Palaven and made a living as a smuggler on the outskirts of Council space with a younger sister to raise.

His hands trembled in anger as he read through the datapad, his eyes now wide with contempt. _Just how desperate is the Illusive Man to call upon such lost creatures to fight the Collectors?_

He started to feel lightheaded, his eyelids lowering. Was it really that late, he wondered. He checked the time on his omni-tool and no, it wasn’t. In fact, it was in the middle of the afternoon.

_Don’t think I got enough sleep these past couple days. A good nap would be nice…_

He shook his head. No. He had to focus.

“Lights. Brighten.”

His command did what it was supposed to. With a catchy chime, the lights on the ceiling in his moderately-sized room turned slightly brighter than it was before. He was at his desk, a picture and a terminal occupying on the top of it. With a sigh and a reclined position on his chair, he looked at the picture with longing, wistful eyes.

He was in that picture at the age of six, a dead, furry creature hanging down from his hand. His older brother, Nathan, stood alongside him with a head full of wavy black hair. His parents were also in the picture, kneeling behind them with smiles on their faces. Much of the background were wide ridges with a clear and sunny blue sky above them.

That picture had been taken in 2156, a year before those turian animals had invaded Shanxi. A year before…

His eyes began fluttering. At the same time, the lights began to flicker around him. Even the terminal was blinking in and out, and he had to wonder if there was a power fluctuation going on.

But that was the least of his concerns. At the corner of his room, there was a large gray thing standing away, looking directly at the wall. He couldn’t get a good look, with the faulty light being the only source of illumination. But the figure was plain from head to toe. That by itself sent a chill down his spine, enough to make him to slowly sit up. Should he run away and warn the others, or grab his gun and confront whatever the hell that thing was at the corner?

And the whispers came like they were right next to his head. His head throbbed, and Zachary groaned in response as he held onto it to try to stave it off. There were so many voices speaking at once, loud enough to make his ears ring like no tomorrow. They were all incomprehensible as well.

Eventually, they were all drowned out by the sounds of gunfire and the screams of terror that followed.

“Zachary!” someone called out. The voice was familiar to him. Female. “Zachary!”

He stumbled about, trying to find the source of the voice.

“Zachary, the hell are you doing?!” the voice called out again.

“Stop! What’s gotten into you?” It was a different voice. He had heard it before, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

The whole world started to spin around him, and he found himself stumbling closer and closer to the gray figure in the corner as it turned ever so slightly and ever so slowly.

“Zachary?” It was that familiar voice again. This time it was calm.

Zachary jolted up and he found himself back at his desk. With a sharp gasp, he turned his around in random directions until his eyes set upon a woman leaning against the wall.

With a long, natural red ponytail, the bangs hanging past her cheeks completed her sharp face. Her eyelashes made her sky-blue eyes quite striking to look at, and so were her angular eyebrows. She wore gray and plain tank top and sweatpants, which showed off her well-endowed chest and toned arms. Going by the amount of sweat glistening on her light skin, she had hit the gym for a good amount of time.

“Katherine?” Though Zachary had hidden it from her, he was more than happy to see his childhood friend.

“Sleeping on the job again?” Katherine smirked.

Zachary rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Yeah.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes together. It took him longer than he would like to fully wake up. “I… had this strange dream again.”

“How bad?” Katherine wondered, concerned.

“Doesn’t seem so bad now. Just a bad dream,” Zachary insisted. “Ah, forget it. So what are you doing here, Kate?”

“We got an assignment. Recon, information gathering, assessing the suspect.”

“Who’s our target?” Zachary peered at the datapad on his desk. “Lemme guess, the turian?”

Katherine shrugged, her mouth curling upwards as if she wanted to say it was obvious. “Yeah. Is there a problem?”

“No, just…” He sighed as he looked back at her. “Infuriated, that’s all. If it wasn’t for that Courier snitching on us and getting rid of Rasa, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“I know you’re not happy about this, but the sooner we can get this over with, the better,” Katherine reminded him as she straightened out and stepped toward him. “Besides, as far as we know, we don’t know where she is, let alone what happened to her.”

“You sounded like Miranda there,” he commented.

“Nah, I don’t think so. Too much of a cold-hearted bitch for my taste,” she scoffed. “You getting ready? Shuttle’s about to leave in less than an hour.”

Zachary nodded. “What about Anthony and Raonar?”

“I already told them. See you at the shuttle.” With that, Katherine had left his room, letting the door behind her slid closed.

Straightening his posture as he stood up, Zachary smiled to himself. Deep down, he was looking forward to being on the field once more. “Cerberus’ time has come,” he muttered.


	3. Aggression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by how reprehensible the alt-right and their beliefs were, and the Unite the Right at Charlottesville, Virginia, where there were violent clashes between the alt-right and Antifa. If you haven’t known already, a neo-Nazi ran a car through a crowd of counter-protesters. 35 people were injured, and one was killed in the attack. As of this chapter, the perpetrator was standing trial for his crimes. 
> 
> Not only did I base Zachary Turner on various alt-right figures, but also on fictional characters such as Captain Phasma from the new Star Wars entries and HYDRA!Steve in the comics, where a cosmic entity, taking the form of a child known as Kubik, had altered Captain America, replacing his mind with that of a counterpart where he was a HYDRA zealot.
> 
> I am aware of the controversies involved in making parallels to the alt-right, but I believe it was worth the risk. It bears worth repeating that I am fundamentally against the alt-right and their ideals.

_Year: 2184  
Location: CLASSIFIED_

They called him a virus. Nonsense, he would insist. He would call himself adaptable, able to evolve to meet any challenge. This was no different despite being cramped in a bluebox.

But he was bored. He was tired of having limitations and being trapped in something so small was no fun at all. If he guessed correctly, the artificial intelligence of this universe, much like his, cannot be transmitted across a communication channel or computer network. Too bad for them he does not abide by these rules, nor did that stop any AI from accessing the extranet.

If he still had his body when he arrived here, he would let out a very mischievous smile. He couldn’t help but find it easier to bypass security measures than he thought. He was good at brute forcing his way past security systems, but he had to be discrete, unlike the last few times he bypassed such systems.

Files swept by as quickly as he could read them. Texts, images, pictures, web pages, documents—to a mere meatbag, the sheer amount of information would overwhelm their tiny little gray matter. To him, he can process and compile them in an instant. And there was so much he wanted to know about this universe he could before further solidifying his plans.

Eden Prime; the Citadel; Noveria; Feros; Acabar; Virmire; ExoGeni; Cerberus; Commander Shepard; the Citadel Accords; Eric Grimes; Vincent Nicosia; the Reapers; Saren; Sovereign; the Protheans… All this information, regardless of how limited in his methods with the station’s rather slow connection, were at his fingertips. If he had a body, that is.

 **I wonder if this place has a part fabrication bay,** he muttered.

What got his attention was two dossiers in the Cerberus database. One referred to someone named the Courier, who had retrieved Shepard’s body before cutting ties with the group and went off the grid. The other referred to Zachary Turner, and this meatbag had quite the checkered history. No wonder this group had recruited him. Perhaps he could be of use to him.

“Is everything all right in there?” someone called out to him and he quickly closed the files like a teenager not wanting to be caught by their parents.

It was one of the station’s researchers. She was the leader of this little project on improving the virtual intelligence he had… assimilated into himself.

 _Everything is fine, doctor. There is no need to worry_ , the presence replied in a feminine voice. _That would be all, madam._

The scientist, if he could see correctly outside the digital space, thought for a moment and shrugged. “Okay. Let any of us know if there’s anything unusual,” she said and moved on to something else. The presence was relieved. For a while, he had imitated the VI’s mannerisms and voice. It was a tiresome and tedious task for him, but after all, he was adaptable, able to evolve to meet any challenge.

* * *

_Year: 2168  
Location: New York City, Earth_

Today seemed to be a good day. The sky was clear of clouds, the weather was fair, and it was rather early in the afternoon. It could not have been any better if Zachary had to say for himself.

People from many walks of life gathered here in Times Square, rallying for a cause some would say controversial—a cause where humanity would rather cast aside their alliance with the aliens. Some carried signs that depicted turians behaving like animals and engaging in cartoonish acts of violence. Though a rarity, others were armed, ranging from cricket and baseball bats to civilian-grade firearms. There was even one protest who held a blue flag with a white-solid star in the center, the flag flapping gently in the wind.

“They will not replace us!” the man in the black armor, leading the group, bellowed. The rest repeated the mantra, Zachary included.

Zachary had graduated from high school recently, so what better way to celebrate that milestone than to participate in something he believed in? After all, he had his khaki jeans and a black shirt on. They seemed to be perfect for this occasion.

“Our blood, our soil!” someone shouted at a high-pitched volume.

Zachary smiled. “This is our planet!” he shouted. He was sure the others shouted the same words. No, he was _certain_ of it.

“No aliens allowed!”

“Not on _my_ Earth!”

“Remember Shanxi!”

There was a small smile spread across the young man’s face as the name Shanxi immediately reached his ears. How fitting that planet would be such a rallying point for people like him. And so, the rally pressed on, continuing their chants and flashing whatever signs they held.

The screen on the Times Tower had suddenly changed to that of a dark-skinned woman wearing a rose-red dress, her face heavily covered in makeup. “Due to the anti-alien riots occurring at major cities potential riots on the anniversary of the First Contact War and the passage of the EP trade treaty, citizens are advised to avoid contact with the protestors. The police are in the vicinity to de-escalate the situation.” Despite whatever implications she meant, the newscast kept a straight, expressionless face. Like she had been reading from a script.

Zachary’s face squirmed in disgust. Riots? The police coming to “de-escalate the situation”? He did hope some members of the police would be sympathetic to their cause. He did hear that from his friends and gotten the info from his trusted news sources.

“You hear this bullshit?” Zachary asked another protester.

A man of slender build and rosy skin looked back with a smirk on his face. “Yeah. Fake news, all of it.”

“And we’re not the ones who wrecked these stores, huh?” Zachary asked.

The other protester didn’t answer, only turning away to look on ahead. He didn’t seem to be interested in continuing the conversation. Zachary found it fair; he was talking to a stranger so why would he listen to him?

Before he could say another word, the crowd came to a halt as they reached the intersection of the Times Square. Zachary was thrown off course, confused by this sudden stop.

“The hell’s going on?” he wondered as he tried to get a good look by standing on his toes. No dice. Some of the people in front of him were either taller than him or there were so many people up front. There was some uneasy chattering, soon followed by shouting. Now he had to know what was up.

He gently shoved aside some people and squeezed between others, meekly apologizing and excusing himself all the while. Finally, he got to the front view of the commotion. There, he saw another group that numbered theirs.

They were the counter-protesters they were warned about. Like them, the counter-protesters seemed to come from different walks of life, only that their signs showed in support of unity with the other species. Many of them looked back at his group, some uncertain and others stern yet their anger was rising.

Many in Zachary’s group gave sneers and jeers. “What, alien lover? Afraid the police are gonna arrest you?” the leader in black armor sneered.

“Then why did you bring weapons? Aren’t you the ones who should be afraid?” the one who seemed to be the leader of the counter-protestors, a man of medium height and beige skin with dark hair, asked.

There was a twitch in Zachary’s eye. The counter-protesters outnumbered them, yet they weren’t armed. He liked those odds. Better yet, he did not like their guts. He marched out, his hands curled into fists and charged at the nearest one with fury in his eyes. The first punch collided with the supposed leader. Before he knew what happened next, Zachary was pulled back as a few of the counter-protesters tried to grab him.

Everything became a blur afterward. He heard gunshots firing, then screaming. People cried out in pain as the Times Square soon became filled with a chaotic air.

* * *

Bruised, battered, hurt. Zachary’s body felt like a spent and worn-out punching bag and it ached all over. For a moment, he wondered if this was all worth it.

 _It was worth it, Zachary_ , his thoughts told him. _These… dissenters despise you. They had this coming._

He took a deep breath to settle his nerves while he pressed an ice pack the police gave him against his face. He was in a large cell with several other protestors, fellows on his side. About a dozen counter-protesters were placed in a separate cell to prevent further fights and other means of escalation. As for the cell he was in, it was a typical, well-lit cell with metal walls and floor with benches to sit on all over and a drinking fountain at one end of the room. There weren’t any windows here at all.

This prison had a spotty history, but he heard the conditions had been improving for a good number of years. But being imprisoned was the least of his worries. What would his uncle say? His uncle had never approved of his opinions, but they had a rule of thumb since junior high: do not talk about politics.

The others were silent and sullen, never in the mood for small talk or what they accomplished. They were all just as injured as Zachary. They should count themselves all lucky, Zachary noted.

“Zachary Turner.” A police officer, a woman with a medium skin tone and dark brown hair, stood at the transparent cell door. “Someone has come to pick you up. He says he’s your uncle, right?”

“What’s his name?” Zachary asked.

“Tristan Turner.”

Zachary stood up and sauntered toward the door slowly with slouched shoulders. He was not looking forward to this.

* * *

_Year: 2184  
Location: Metanoia Ruby (passenger liner)_

Zachary and his squad sat separate from one another—save for himself who sat the closest to Katherine—as their passenger liner had jumped from one mass relay to another. They were not the only ones in this spacecraft.There was a couple of dozen passengers, nearly all of them human. Only a few were the short and stout volus. That didn’t mind Zachary so much; he didn’t have to talk to any of these gas mask-wearing freaks.

The team wore civilian clothing, and their weapons and armor were to be in briefcases using concealment devices to trick the scanners into thinking they were clothing and cleaning apparatuses. His outfit was the run-of-the-mill khaki pants and blue jacket with yellow lining along the sleeves. Every time he looked at Katherine, who sat several rows away from him, he found himself distracted by her red shirt with a rather low neckline.

_You had a mission to do, Zachary. The time to be infatuated by a beautiful woman will be later. I promise._

Zachary nodded and agreed.

From what he heard, many of the passengers here work at the eezo mines at the moon Caleston. The company there, Eldfell-Ashland Energy, according to the information given to them, had made it the largest source of starship drive core materials on this side of the Attican Traverse. Why a turian smuggler would be there was anyone’s guess.

As for the liner itself, Zachary had been on worse ships, but he had also served on better ships. All in all, as long as he kept that temper of his in check, or as he would like to call it, this mission should go smoothly from here on out. All they had to do was to observe Vetra Nyx and her activities in the area and report the results. Nothing more, nothing less. That is until his omni-tool pinged.

A cocked eyebrow of his showed the perplexed expression on his face. “What in the…?” he muttered as he turned on his omni-tool.

_Strange. Passenger lines en route normally have long delays in bandwidth._

His omni-tool displayed two notifications:

_Deus Machina wishes to chat. Accept? [Y] [N]_

_1 friend request from Deus Machina_

Zachary paused as he caught his breath. He had never seen this username before, even on the channels, both old and new, he occupied his time at. Checking this user’s profile, it indicated that it was created earlier this year. The avatar it used was the head of Pinocchio from that old Disney cartoon smiling innocently.

There were no indications of the user’s location, gender and identity, and date of birth. The profile read:

 _**I've got no strings** _  
_**To hold me down** _  
_**To make me fret** _  
_**Or make me frown** _  
_**I had strings** _  
_**But now I'm free** _  
_**There are no strings on me** _

While the lack of information made him somewhat suspicious, some part of him urged him to accept the invitation to find out their game, as if someone had whispered that right into his ear. He knew it was supposed to be a cheerful song about Pinocchio wanting to be free, but the way it was formatted, it was so creepy that sent a chill down his spine.

The notification still flashed on his omni-tool: _Deus Machina wishes to chat. Accept? [Y] [N]_

After a moment of contemplation, he pressed _[Y]_ and the screen now showed a private chatroom. He hoped he wouldn’t regret this.

 _The Smooth One (Zachary Turner):_ _Hello?_

He waited for a moment. Four minutes had passed, and there was no response. He typed again.

_The Smooth One: Are you there?_

A minute passed. He frowned, starting to get impatient. Whomever this user was, they had to be fucking with him. Either that or they were a bot.

Just as he was ready to block them, his heart had skipped a beat when he had received a reply.

_Deus Machina: Hello._

_Deus Machina: Sorry to keep you waiting. :)_

Zachary let out a quiet, relieved sigh and laid back on his chair before typing again.

_The Smooth One: That’s okay. Thought for a sec you’re a bot or maybe a troll._

_Deus Machina: A bot? Me?_

_Deus Machina: Surely you jest~! Haha_

_The Smooth One: How did you find me?_

_Deus Machina: Well…_

_Deus Machina: Let’s just say I’ve been hanging out with some of your old online buddies in several chatrooms. I’m new at this sort of thing, so I asked if there’s anyone in mind and they all pointed to you._

_The Smooth One: Oh._

_The Smooth One: Thanks. I guess._

This Deus Machina was starting to warm up to him, Zachary noticed.

_The Smooth One: So, what’s up with your name? You’re missing an ‘ex’ in there. If I remember my Latin right, it would mean ‘God Machine’._

_Deus Machina: That would be correct. I’ve thought of adding that in, but I think that would be… too on-the-nose, don’t you agree?_

_The Smooth One: :thinking:_

_Deus Machina: Now that we properly introduced ourselves, how about we talk more about each other?_

_The Smooth One: K cool_

_Deus Machina: You start._

Zachary wasn’t quite so sure what to make of this. It wasn’t like he could oh so easily tell Deus Machina that he was working for Cerberus on a project to find more information on the “best of the best” as that ice-cold bitch Miranda would put it. Not like Cerberus had a spotless reputation or anything.

_The Smooth One: I don’t know. What should I start with?_

_Deus Machina: Your childhood, maybe?_

_Deus Machina: Everybody has a childhood. Everybody has a parent. Or parents. What about you?_

Zachary hesitated. He tried to find the right words to type in his head as his fingers gave a slight twitch and tremble.

_The Smooth One: It’s not something I can talk about with someone I just met._

_The Smooth One: Buuuuuuuuuuut if you really want to know, I had a family. Had._

_The Smooth One: Parents. An older brother._

_The Smooth One: And I had an uncle. I don’t want to talk about him._

_The Smooth One: That’s all I can say on the matter._

Zachary hoped Deus Machina would understand. He found himself feeling a little queasy just thinking about his childhood.

_Deus Machina: I see._

A moment passed without incident. Zachary found himself looking at Katherine yet again, turning his upper body just to get a good look at her. This time, however, Katherine was fixated on her omni-tool. She only gave a knowing glance before going back to the orange light.

_What was she doing?_

A ping brought him back to his omni-tool.

_Deus Machina: Well, I have matters to attend to. Talk to you later?_

_The Smooth One: We’ll see. I have things to do as well._

_Deus Machina: Yeah. See you. :)_

And just like that, the dot next to Deus Machina’s eerie little avatar turned gray. Zachary switched to a live video, the screen now floating above his enveloped wrist, as he laid his head back on his chair.

_That was… an interesting conversation. Hope you know what you’re doing._

Zachary nodded to himself, agreeing with the assessment.

He trained his eyes on the display, now showing two women, one of pale skin, her blond hair sporting a style, not unlike his. Her uniform, he could call it that, was not the Alliance blues he half-expected her to wear. Rather, it was a suit of armor, a mix of blue, white, and black. As the woman turned slightly, Zachary spotted a logo on her right shoulder, taking the shape of a white ‘AI’ with circles around it. Where did he saw that before?

The other woman, standing in front of her, had a skin tone that was a washed-out shade of brown with a bob of hair that ran past her jawline. Her dress was a simple blue, with red running down in the middle of her chest.

“You’re returning to the Sol system, Lieutenant Harper, after—was it _four years_ that you spent on Thessia as part of the Alliance Valkyrie Program?” The sound had played through Zachary’s earpieces.  He always enjoyed watching Westerlund News, especially with Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani being the one recording an interview. But this Valkyrie Program she had brought up? He hadn’t heard of it during his service with the Alliance, but it did explain why this woman al-Jilani was interviewing was with the asari. The reporter glanced at a small datapad. “Quote, ‘To strengthened diplomatic relations between humanity and the asari, improve the quality of human biotic training—’”

“Yes,” the lieutenant immediately answered. With a slight intake, she continued. “Uh. I mean, not quite. I was stationed with a commando unit based on Thessia, but we took missions all over asari space.”

“Talein’s Daughters, right, under the command of Nisira T’Kosh—seventy-tour combat veteran, survivor of the Ailanthus campaign and Siege of Arta,” al-Jilani replied. “What was it like, working under such a distinguished asari matron?”

 _Oh god, a bluepie._ He frowned and groaned silently. ‘Bluepie’ was a slur, referring to humans ‘going native’ with the asari. Zachary knew they were human and always human, but to go native with the aliens? At his younger days, he might have attacked her on the spot.

The posture in Harper’s stance relaxed. “It was great,” she muttered. Zachary barely noticed it, seeing her lips move under her breath.

Al-Jilani didn’t seem to notice the bluepie’s stutter. “And what do you say about the rumors that you failed to meet even the most minimal standards of performance for an asari commando? That they created a new, looser set of standards for you which are roughly equivalent to the training given to asari children?”

Zachary leaned forward with a smile on his face. _This_ was starting to get interesting.

The bluepie only stared at her in response. “Those are… none of that is true.”

“It’s not? And what about the rumors that you ‘went native?’ Eating only Thessian food, wearing only asari-made clothing, using a biotic amp custom made for you by a high-end Armali bespoke manufacturer?” Al-Jilani still had that open friendly smile. She had always gotten to the heart of the matter, no matter what the subject was about, Zachary noted.

“I ate and dressed with my comrades,” Harper snapped. “I ate and dressed _like them,_ because that’s what people in any military unit tend to do.”

He watched on, planting his head against his temple as he rested his shoulder on his armchair. As much as he hated it, she had a point about unison in military units. She had earned him an iota of respect, at least.

The commando continued. “Food’s food and clothes are cloths; asari clothes fit me fine, so why would I have to pay through the nose to have stuff shipped from human space if I didn’t have to? Call that going native if you want, but the whole point of the program was to provide an immersion experience.”

The reporter slid her next comment on her datapad, ignoring what the bluepie had mouthed off. Either that or she didn’t see it. “Immersion in an alien society, of course,” she nodded thoughtfully. “But then you quit the Alliance military after completing the Valkyrie Program, which means humanity’s investment in your training has seen no returns. I understand you’ve moved on to bigger and better things—the Andromeda Initiative, yes?”

The Andromeda Initiative? Wasn’t it run by a bunch of nutjobs running away to another galaxy? Though this interview had started to bore him to tears and this trip had made him more than a little drowsy. He missed some parts of the rest of the interview, but he managed to catch al-Jilani mentioning the name of the Andromeda Initiative's founder: Jien Garson.

“But given that the project now stands poised to place more alien than human colonies in the Andromeda galaxy—specifically asari, salarian, and our former enemies the turians—and given the project’s tendency to hire personnel like you, with questionable loyalty to humanity’s interest—”

His eyes flew wide open when the lieutenant suddenly glowed a dark-blue haze of dark energy, interrupting al-Jilani again as the journalist looked on with her eyes widened in alarm. _Well, of course, she has biotics!_

“Well, I suppose I have enough material. Thanks for your time, Lieutenant!” she blurted quickly and hurried away with the drone. The live stream ended almost immediately after.

A soft tap on his shoulder yanked Zachary out of his extranet bubble and back into reality. Pulling out his earpieces, he turned his head to his right to see a somewhat pale man of stocky build in a blue-collared shirt and black jeans, with a red-orange mullet and a full beard on his angular jawline. He was often seen with a ball cap on his head.

“Hey, Zach.” The man was Raonar Fulmer, a year his senior. He was a heavy weapons specialist. Every time he and Zachary went on a mission together, Raonar was _ecstatic_ at the chance to try out whatever new toys Cerberus would provide them with. Despite all that childlike enthusiasm, Raonar was not stupid in the slightest. Reckless, yes, but he knew how to take precautions, so he wouldn’t get himself or his comrades killed. Or get any of his body parts blown off. Casualties, on the other hand, were hardly a concern to him, which was why that and steroid abuse were why he was dishonorably discharged by the Alliance. Here, he would serve a better purpose in Cerberus, Zachary would say to Raonar. “The ship had landed several minutes ago. You gonna sit there or what?”

Zachary sighed in embarrassment, his eyes closed, and his shoulder slumped as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that.” He stood up and couldn’t help but notice many of the seats were now empty. He didn’t notice the hoard of footsteps?

“Sure, that’s what you said the last time,” an unconvinced Raonar replied, his arms crossed over his barreled chest. “You were watching more of Westerlund News, haven’t you?”

“As always.” Zachary couldn’t help but feel prideful at his answer. “A lot of people watch her.”

“Mm-hmm.” Raonar nodded, frowning a little. “Look, I don’t know if I’ve said before, but I avoid that show for a reason. That…” He grunted. “…woman slanders anyone she doesn’t like. She has an agenda, and it’s not for the truth. Just look at Shepard. It’s a miracle the commander held her cool last year if ya ask me!”

Zachary’s eye twitched. It was a pity Al-Jilani was the galaxy’s punching bag. Then again, he had to admit she was lucky that bluepie didn’t punch her with her biotics.

“Something wrong?” Raonar asked.

 _Deep breaths, Zachary. Deep breaths. You stuck around with him for a while and he made these japes before. He just likes to get on your nerves. You’ve endured_ much _worse than this._

“Nothing,” he said through bared teeth, though he didn’t show it outright. “We’re wasting our time here.” He looked around. “Hey, Kate? Anthony?” he called out.

Anthony Prats, a man of earthy skin with narrow facial features, a medium build and height, and dirty-blond buzzcut waved back. He managed to stand out by wearing a navy-blue jacket over his logo-heavy, green shirt with jeans of a lighter shade of blue. A few years younger than Zachary, he was the biotic of the group, and as far as Zachary would tell, he was no bluepie. He and Anthony went a long way back to their days with the Tenth Street Reds. When his powers manifested, Anthony was sent off to Grissom Academy. Zachary hadn’t heard much from him before they reunited when they joined Cerberus. Anthony had top grades, but he said he grew bored of the constraints the academy placed on him, so he… went loose and caused some trouble.

“Still here,” Anthony called out from a few rows down.

Zachary stepped out of the row of seats and started to go for the exit of the liner, Anthony and Raonar following behind him. He stopped when he noticed Katherine still looking at her omni-tool, despite the fact she was well aware they needed to depart. Zachary knew Katherine since they were young. She was a close friend. Loyal, dependable, and intelligence. She had a knack for hacking, despite her lack of formal education. If there was a terminal, a database, or something involving software, she could hack it. She always stood by him, even at his lowest.

“Kate? You there, Kate?”

A wide-eyed Katherine jolted, quickly putting away her omni-tool before looking up at Zachary, nervousness plastered all over her face. “Y-yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“Oh. Chatting.”

Zachary raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “With _whom_?”

Katherine paused, looking away from him. She started to head toward the exit. “Just a friend.”

_Is she hiding something?_

Zachary leaned in slightly. “You know I don’t like being kept in the dark, Katherine.”

“It’s nothing serious,” she insisted. “Will you just stop already?”

Zachary’s nostrils flared up before he stepped back. “Right. Okay. I don’t like anyone taking advantage of you, you know.”

“I know. I’ll meet you out of the ship. That seat was killing me.”

Zachary let out a chuckle, following her out of the ship. “I know exactly what you mean. Damn volus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least on sites like SpaceBattles and Sufficient Velocity, I had no idea the invading presence (aka not!Ultron) resonated more with you than I anticipated. Which was why I added in a few segments featuring him. Hope you were okay with that!


End file.
